


Forsaken

by j quadrifrons (Jenavira)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Misery, Gen, M/M, Monster POV, Peter Lukas is his own warning, The Lonely - Freeform, lonely eyes bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 04:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18843256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenavira/pseuds/j%20quadrifrons
Summary: Statement of Peter Lukas regarding a gift from his husband.Statement never given.





	Forsaken

Managing the Magnus Institute is decidedly more enjoyable than Peter had expected it to be. He doesn't have to attend board meetings, for one thing. (Well, he probably should, but he's very used to standing up his brother.) There does seem to be a great deal of paperwork, but he has a delightful assistant who has been more than happy to manage the bulk of that. Peter is content to deal with what's left, which mostly consists of leaving his signature in a dramatic (if heavily faded and entirely illegible) scrawl across the bottom of things that look very important. Martin still tries to explain every one of them, bless him.

The real joy, though, is the personnel management. Peter had been telling Elias for years that he was far too lenient with his staff. Elias liked to retort that not everything needed to be run to Peter's exacting shipboard standards, but Peter rather thought he'd lost that argument when he'd had to murder his last Archivist. It didn't stop Elias from arguing, naturally, but it certainly made it more difficult for him to land a point.

The Institute is full of solitary people. Many of them, true, are that way by choice and inclination, and as such less than interesting to Peter's particular tastes. Scholars generally do not appeal. But there are plenty, too, who were driven into the arms of Jonah Magnus's cluttered attic of an organization by some encounter of their own. Cut off from their untouched friends and relations by their own refusal to forget about the worst thing that ever happened to them (even if it were willing to forget them, which is, on the whole, unlikely), their desperation seasons the sterile air of the Institute with loneliness.

Most of them don't like him, which is fine; Peter knows he's an acquired taste. The trouble is that their dislike is inclined to become insubordination. He likes to think of himself as a patient man, but when he gives an order he expects it to be obeyed. But a firm hand and swift retribution put paid to the little rebellion in Research quickly enough, and the sacrifice of it mollified Nathaniel for a while. If Elias has a problem with it, well, whose fault is it really that such a thing was necessary?

And that was Elias all over, wasn't it? He's been complaining endlessly for years about his Archivist without doing anything about it. "He thinks they're his friends," he'd told Peter more than once. "I can't seem to convince him that the archival assistants aren't there to be good company, no matter how obnoxious the people I assign to him."

"And yet he's managed to lose one already," Peter had said in reply, not entirely to rub in the fact that he does sometimes pay attention to what Elias is moaning about. "Very careless of him."

That had brought a smile to Elias's lips at least, a small victory. "I am intrigued to see what happens when he notices."

"Of course you are." Peter had pulled Elias down to straddle his lap at that point, he remembers fondly, biting a kiss out of his mouth. It was always a delight to see prim and proper Elias Bouchard trying to hold onto his dignity from an untenable position. (The fact that he usually managed only made it better.) "Or, if you like, I could show him how alone he really is."

"You have no patience, Peter," Elias had scolded, the hypocrite, his hands already going from Peter's shoulders to his trousers. Then he'd leaned back, just for a moment, to stare directly into Peter's eyes. "If you touch my Archivist I'll ruin you," he said, and the low, breathless tone of his voice made it a promise.

He'd changed his tune later, of course, when his Archivist had taken to conspiring against him - again, Peter couldn't help but point out, no matter how it made Elias scowl - and he'd needed someone to make sure that the whole careful balance of the Institute didn't spin out of control in his absence. Peter doesn't care about the Institute, but then, what are allies for? And he is being well compensated for his efforts.

Peter's made his way to the storage wing by now, past Artifact Storage, empty of people - no one in Artifact Storage ever works late - but still humming with latent power. Useless power, trapped in books and cabinets and hollow toys, but Peter supposes that some people like that sort of thing. He's never needed it. He continues down the stairs, past energy-efficient LED lights that flicker in his wake like old flourescents, into the Archives.

He breathes it in, the thick, aching tang of loneliness that saturates this place more than any. The archival staff offer quite the selection. The child of blood and knives, cut off from her patron and still too wounded to speak to anyone but another monster. (If she is here tonight, Peter cannot find her; he suspect she's taken to sleeping in the liar's hallways.) The Hunt's dog, shattered and fragile from her time in Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe. The Detective, distrustful of all of them, too intent on following whatever trail of lies gift-wrapped in honesty Elias has laid out in her path to see what she leaves behind. Those two sleep tangled together on a cot in the storage room, trusting to a lock that has never been strong enough to keep out the things that truly threaten them. No matter how close they may lie, they are still alone.

And the last of them, Peter's particular favorite, the Archivist. He sits at his desk, paging through notes and files, more an excuse to keep himself awake than producing any useful work. Peter leans against the desk just next to him and savors. He tastes the hollow emptiness, the sense of loss that not a single one of his original assistants remains. The faintest hint of jealousy of the two women asleep in the next room. The aching certainty that if he had only acted differently, he would not now be so alone. This is a misery that could feed Peter's god for years. This is a gift for which he is truly grateful.

("It's not much of a gift if he never wakes up," Peter had said when Elias had laid out his conditions. Elias had folded his hands, letting the clink of the shackles punctuate his silence, and looked at him placidly. "He will.")

The Archivist gives up on his papers, sinks his head into his hands. He can try as hard as he likes to reach out to his broken compatriots, but they will not lessen his solitude. Not while he's here, at any rate. Peter looks over the desk, peers into a mug of tea that smells like the same blend that Martin drinks every day, and smiles. There really is nothing like the fear of a monster still clinging to their humanity. Peter himself has lived in that space for long enough to know it well.

It really was very generous of Elias to make sure he was so well provided for, Peter thinks. He pats the Archivist fondly on the shoulder as he moves to leave; wrapped in the fog of Forsaken as he is, it won't be felt as anything more than a hollow chill, nothing at all unusual in these empty places deep in the bowels of the Magnus Institute. He will have to come up with something really special to repay him when all this is over.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come yell about TMA with me, I have too many feelings  
> [@j_quadrifrons](https://twitter.com/j_quadrifrons), [backofthebookshelf](https://backofthebookshelf.tumblr.com)


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